The Voices
by eva
Summary: Someone’s mind is damaged beyond repair by Joyce’s death. Enjoy.


Title: The Voices  
Author: eva  
Email: lllwickedchildlll@yahoo.com  
Summary: Someone's mind is damaged by Joyce's death. Enjoy.  
Note: A completely, utterly, fully strange fic I wrote when I had time to spare during an exam. Please don't ask any questions about it because it's just... weird. It's crazy; there is no reason, no explanation.   
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of WB, FOX, Mutant Enemy, and Joss... I think.   
Feedback: What author doesn't enjoy feedback?  
  
  
  
She held the simple kitchen knife in her small hands, her mind as cold as the body laying lifelessly in the cool basement, her fingers dancing aimlessly on the gleaming blade now wet with blood. The voices, the evil red sneers coming from her own fractured mind, the whispers that mocked her, were now silent, no more helpful advice to offer now that the deed was done.   
  
There was a dull ache in her leg from sitting in one place for so long but she paid it no attention. She wasn't really focusing on anything. Just the cold. But she made no attempt to warm herself; in fact, she rather enjoyed the level of numbness it gave her, leaving her to her thoughts.   
  
She was alone now, completely alone  
  
(abandoned)   
  
No one to take her in. Not like they ever wanted her in the first place.   
  
And then, it began again- the voices, the whispers. At first, it was soft, quiet, so she did not bother to acknowledge them. At the moment, she was more concerned with the guilt that her human soul was allowing to seep through the holes in her unprotected skin, dripping like thick mud  
  
(blood)  
  
into the never-ending blackness. Slowly, however, as is some invisible hand was turning the volume higher and higher, the voices began to scream and echo. Pretty soon, the resonance of her remorse was drowned out by the other ominous sounds. "She deserved it," the voices said, "She was the real one."  
  
"Her love for you was false; their love not genuine."  
  
"...implanted in her mind..."  
  
"...not true..."  
  
"...hate..."  
  
"She got all the real love. All of it. Killing her was a good thing, a good thing."   
  
Yes, she had done a good thing. A tiny smile, nearly a smirk, touched her lips, red and swollen from her chewing. Her cold fingers, covered with drying blood, danced faster as she stared off into the empty corners with hazel eyes. Of course she deserved it. Everyone loved her. But no one loved the other one, oh no, they thought they did but how can love, if there really was such a thing as love, be implanted in a mind and still be true? She knew they all thought of her as a burden, someone they must take care of and protect because they were being forced to. She knew because the voices told her so and the voices never lie, never   
  
(abandon)   
  
hurt her. They were her only solace; her only relief to the unbearable pain that swallowed and bruised her since... no, no, she refused to think about that. She had not loved her either; no one did.   
  
"Buffy?"  
  
The voices echoing in her lost mind quieted immediately, cut through by the other voice coming from upstairs. She stared up the wooden step at the light shining through the slightly open door with a look of confusion on her face, like a sleepwalker waking to find themselves in an unfamiliar and strange place. Her fingers stopped dancing on the blade; and then she uncrossed her legs to stand slowly, her eyes still concentrating on the door, combing the hair hanging over her eyes, matting the strands with blood.   
  
The sounds of footsteps grew louder and louder as the person strayed closer to the basement, his voice calling out to someone  
  
(to her)  
  
"Fee Fi Fo Fum," she thought humorlessly and watched with a strange and expecting fascination as the door was pulled completely open to reveal the shadow of a tall man.   
  
"Dawn? Why didn't you answer when I called you? What happened? Is that-" He stopped short, halfway down the steps, his horror-filled, widening eyes fixed on something behind her. She tore her gaze from the familiar man and followed his gaze slowly, as if in a dream, not sure of what she was going to see behind her but knowing everything at the same time. Her eyes fell on the indistinguishable body the man was staring at, recognizable only by the golden blonde hair framing the body's scarred and bloody face. Its pale lavender shirt, the one she had liked so much, was soaked from multiple wounds, the sleeves hanging in shreds from trying to protect herself.   
  
(her)   
  
Her neck was crooked  
  
(broken)  
  
tilted at such an awkward angle.   
  
A moan was heard from the stairs, but her eyes never strayed from the body; even when her knife was wrenched from her hand and she was pulled away roughly. She watched as the man bent over the body, anguishly calling her name, but she knew it was too late. The voices told her so. It was far too late. The blood had been spilt, the destiny had been fulfilled, the apple had been eaten, the poison had been consumed.  
  
She sat down on the cool floor where she had been roughly pushed  
  
(fallen)  
  
no feelings or emotions on her face revealing the things that went on in her mind. She was far too busy listening to the voices, praising her, loving her, the ones that would never abandon her, never leave.  
  



End file.
